


Girls Like Her

by pasiphile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 09:44:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2343944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's strange and unexpected and brilliant and everything he never knew he wanted.  (fem!Moriarty/male!Moran)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Girls Like Her

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to Francis for replacing my usual idea of vampy seductress fem!Moriarty with this one, who -to me- is infinitely more interesting.
> 
> warnings for vaguely sexist overtones and sort-of assault

He’s being stared at.

This, in and of itself, is nothing unusual. He’s used to it; it comes with the jawline, the muscles, the way he carries himself. Lots of people stare at him.

And the girl’s a looker. Not, mind you, a _looker_ : she’s plain as dishwater. Dark frizzy messy hair – not the fancy sexy bedhead mess, actual untidy tangled hair – and a too pale, slightly doughy face, and what little he can see of the rest of her beneath the unflattering clothes doesn’t exactly scream promises of voluptuous pleasure either.

She’s the kind of girl that looks at people like him, but doesn’t do anything beyond looking. He’s seen them before, and usually he pays them about as much attention as he would to a fly across the room.

And yet, for some strange reason, he can’t look away from her. The girl. There’s something off about this, about her, and even though he can’t quite put his finger on it, he’s still fascinated.

She peeks at him, but as soon as her eyes –unexpectedly, no doubt – meet his, she looks down, shyly. Dark eyes, she has, startlingly dark in a face that pale –

And that’s it. Girls like her should be blushing by now, but she isn’t.

He gets up and goes over, even though there’s another girl with a model’s face who’s been discreetly checking him out, and a bloke with the build of a professional swimmer who’s been staring at his arse the whole night, but he doesn’t give a fuck about them. He _knows_ about them.

Although he knows about girls like that one too. Knows their type. Even fucked one, just the once, and the absurd gratefulness from that one almost made up for her fumbling insecurity. Is that what this is, does he want a repeat performance, see how much that girl would do for him?

But no, that’s not what this is about.

He sits down on the barstool next to the girl. “Drink?”

She looks up, eyes wide, then looks over her shoulder and around in a classic _who, me?_ gesture. “Sorry?” she says, once it’s clear that, despite expectations, he _is_ addressing her. She has a soft, high-pitched voice, slight lisp, thick r’s coming from deep in her throat. Girlish in an unassuming, unattractive way - it matches the rest of her.

“Can I get you anything?” he repeats, with one of his best smiles tacked on.

“Oh. Um. I still, um, have…” She gestures at her glass, half-full.

“I’ll keep you company until you finish that, then,” he says, still smiling. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Oh.” She folds her hands, then seems to realise the odd demureness of that position and puts them flat on the bar again. Small fingers, the daintiness of them ruined by the rough fingernails, bitten almost to the quick. No nailpolish.

From up close she looks even more frumpy. Not a hint of makeup to disguise that strange bloodless puffy quality of her face, a too-long skirt that makes her legs look short and stubby, and an oversized blouse hiding whatever little curve she might have under there. And that’s not even getting into the body language, the nervously flitting eyes and the subtle fidgeting and the hunched shoulders. No one in his right mind would find her attractive.

But still she isn’t blushing. Girls like her should; girls like her would have turned crimson by now, with all the attention he’s giving her. But she isn’t.

So either she has some strange genetic defect that doesn’t allow her to blush, or…

Or she’s not a _girl like her_ at all.

“That’s, um, very nice of you,” she says hurriedly, “but, I, I should be g- g- ” She swallows. Trouble getting the words out. “Going,” she finally manages. She grabs her bag, almost drops it.

“What about your drink?” he asks, amused.

She shakes her head and gets off the bar stool, clumsily, and then almost _runs_ out of the pub.

He only hesitates for a second before he grabs his coat and goes after her.

***

If he’s wrong, if he’s misjudged, if she really simply does have some kind of skin disorder that makes her unable to blush, he’s crossing so many boundaries it isn’t even funny. But if he’s _right_ …

Well, the thing is, if he’s right he doesn’t know what’s going to happen, and to him, that’s as close to irresistible as it ever gets.

Her flat shoes clatter against the cobbles as she walks away and turns into an alley. A loose stone makes her stumble. She turns around, sees him, then hoists her bag up and starts walking faster.

He runs a few yards to keep up with her – he can’t let her get out his sight, can’t let her get away without him ever _knowing_ –

“Why are you following me?” she yells, high and panicky.

He lunges, grabs hold of her arm, and swings her around so her back hits the rough wall behind her. He closes his other hand around her throat and her eyes go wide, scared.

If he’s wrong here, he’s going to have trouble meeting his eyes in the mirror tomorrow.

But he only needs a few seconds before his suspicions are confirmed.

“You’re good,” he says, smiling.

“Wh- what?” the girl squeaks.

“Impressive, even. The trembling… Not sure even I could manage that, actually. Really, you’ve got talent.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, voice weak, shaking. Terrified.

“But those autonomous functions are a bitch, aren’t they?” he continues. “Not even someone as good as you can control those.”

She blinks rapidly, eyes still wide. “Sorry?”

He lets go of her and steps back. “Your heartbeat’s too slow.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again.

He puts his hands in his pockets and waits.

And then she – she _transforms_. Her shoulders stop hunching and go relaxed, pulled back. She crosses her arms underneath her breasts and leans back against the wall, lounging, and her terrified expression melts away to make room for a small superior smile.

“Damn,” she says, easily. “Should’ve been aware of that.”

“Yeah,” he says, staring.

“As a matter of professional pride,” she continues, not a fucking stutter in sight, “what gave me away? In the pub, I mean. Why did you follow me?”

“You weren’t blushing.”

“Ah, yes.” She runs a hand over her cheek – not flirty or gentle but rough, strangely disdainful. “I hoped the heat in the pub would do the trick, but apparently not.” She clucks her tongue. “Maybe I should use blusher? But that’s at odds with the whole no make-up thing, obviously.”

“Holding your breath would do the trick.”

“Hm, good point, if I could do that subtly… I’ll have to practice on it.”

She looks up at him, still smiling.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Me? No one.”

“I don’t believe for one fucking second you’re no one important.”

Her smile grows. “Not what I said. I’m the invisible woman. The voice in the ear of everyone of importance in this whole damn city. But nothing beyond that. Not a person, just a voice. After all…” And now, finally, the lazy arrogant look gets an extra dimension, something dark and ugly and _furious_. “Who would take someone like me seriously?”

He swallows. “I would.”

She cocks her head, looks at him. “Apparently so.”

They stand. In the distance he can hear some drunken yelling, a few people laughing, cars passing. In this alley, it’s relatively silent, all those sounds muted.

He still can’t look away from her.

“So,” she says. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“Anything you want.”

And she laughs.

***

He wants her.

He wants her like he hasn’t wanted anyone else ever before. He wants _her_. Not just for her body, which is the way it usually works, or for her power or her influence or her skills in bed – he knows _nothing_ about her skills in bed, she could be a virgin for all he knows.

He wants her because she’s _her_. Because of her smile and the way she taps her fingers when she’s thinking and the words she writes to politicians and crime bosses and government officials. Because of the way she can change who she is, what she looks like, with nothing but a movement of her shoulder, a hem pulled down, because she’s invisible and she shouldn’t be because she’s fucking astonishing.

Not that it’s reciprocated. When he compliments her, she rolls her eyes with obvious irritation. When he drops hints about what he wants to do with her, she laughs as if he’s told a really great joke. And the one time he touched her, she hit him.

So he keeps his distance and does everything and anything she asks him to and obeys without question and _wants_ until his whole fucking body is burning with it.

***

“Moriarty has sent me,” he says, calmly.

In his earpiece, a soft, girlish, slightly lisping voice croons instructions.

“He’s most displeased.”

The man in front of him shakes. Everyone knows Moriarty, you see.

Except nobody actually _knows_ Moriarty.

He does, though. But not as much as he wants to. He wants to know _her_ , the shape of her body beneath those mismatched clothes she wears, the line of her hips and waist and back, the taste of her mouth and her cunt, the noises she makes, her sensitive places. Her face when she comes.

When he comes home to her that night, she’s sitting in the window sill, smoking, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and wearing nothing but old torn jeans and one of his shirts, unbuttoned. 

He’s seen in her full makeup exactly once, with a matching flattering dress and a perfect coiffure and fake nails and high heels. She still wasn’t pretty, and it left him with a strange feeling of vertigo – of nausea, even. It’s wrong.

She ripped off the dress the second he closed the door of the flat that night, running both hands through her hair until it went back to its usual mess of frizzy tangles, threw the high heels into the open fire and scrubbed at her face until there was no trace of paint left. And only then was she herself again.

She isn’t pretty, or beautiful, or gorgeous, or any of those things women are supposed to be. But all she has to do is say his name, or smile, or laugh, and he’s hard, ready to go, to fall to his knees in front of her and do everything he can to make her feel _good_. But she won’t let him.

And now, here, in those odd clothes and the cigarette between her lips and her dark amused eyes on him, just like _that_ –

It’s not love. Or maybe it is, who knows; whatever it is, it leaves him fucking speechless.

“Done your job, then?” she asks, Dublin accent curling around the words.

“Yeah.” He strips off his jacket, puts down his gun. “Almost slipped up and called you a _she_ ,” he says, jokingly.

She gives him an irritated look. “If you ever do slip up I’m going to stub out this-" a wave of the cigarette “-on your eyeball, got that?”

“Yes,” he says. He goes over to the windowsill and sits down on the floor, at her feet. She gives him a pointed look, and then her eyes go back to London, spread out before her.

“I wouldn’t,” he says. “You know that, right?”

He can’t betray her in much the same way he can’t stop his heart beating. There is no world in which he doesn’t want her, obey her, protect her.

Worship her.

“Yes,” she says, with an odd little smile. “I know.”

He reaches for her, instinctually, and only manages to stop his fingers when they’re less than an inch from her thigh. It takes effort, a huge wrenching act of willpower. There’s nothing he wants more than to feel the warmth of her skin.

She looks down at his fingers, the tip of her cigarette burning ominously bright.

He slowly pulls his hand back.

She smiles.

He wants and she knows it but she won’t let him close and it’s _killing_ him.

***

Until, one day, she sighs and turns to him and says, “Stop.”

“Stop what?” he asks, only a little startled. He’s used to non-sequiturs, to the way that brilliant mind of hers jumps and skips and dances across ideas that even the most intelligent people can only wade through.

She glares at him, dark eyes fiery. “Stop playing this stupid insipid _game_.”

“It’s not a game,” he says, heated, and she gives him that smile again, haughty and knowing and everything he wants to _die_ for.

“Don’t be silly. It’s annoying, don’t make me fire you for it.” And she mimes a gun at him, to make sure he knows exactly what _being fired_ entails.

“It’s not a game,” he says, again, getting desperate. “I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t dare to play games with you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, really?” she says, and then suddenly she’s in front of him, pulling him down by the neck, and her lips touch his.

It takes them both by surprise.

He certainly didn’t expect his hand to go straight to that messy bird’s nest of her hair to tangle his fingers into it like he’s afraid of letting go, nor his arm to go around her waist, squashing her close, crushing her against his chest, possessive and desperate and terrified she’ll push him off again.

And he’s willing to bet she didn’t exactly anticipate her little moan when his tongue touches her teeth, or the way she pushes her hips forward, sharp hipbone digging against his upper thigh, or how her crooked little teeth bury into his lip and how her fingers dig into his neck like they want to break his spine.

She pulls away – he almost doesn’t let her, almost holds her back before he remembers she’s _her_ , and he can’t stop her even if he wanted to – and she stumbles back, wiping at her mouth.

“You weren’t lying,” she says, eyes wide. Surprise, and it’s the first time he’s seen that on her in its genuine form. It doesn’t look much like the surprise she usually fakes.

“I _wouldn’t lie to you_ ,” he says, insistent, because if she doesn’t realise that, what is the point of this all?

“No,” she says, those dark eyes fixed on him. “You wouldn’t.”

She grabs his hand.

***

He doesn’t so much fuck as worship her.

He buries his head between her thighs and stays there until his lips are numb and his tongue feels like it’s cramping up, and then he goes up again and lets his fingers and palm continue what his mouth has started, coaxing moans and grunts and eventually goddamn _screams_ out of her.

He doesn’t even think about his cock, rock-hard and straining painfully against his flies, until she rolls him onto his back and rips his jeans and boxers off and sinks down on him like she’s been doing this for years.

Her sharp ragged bitten fingernails have raked painful tracks down his back that ache every time he moves, every time she rocks her hips – later he’ll find he’s bled on the sheets, skin broken in more than one place – and she still isn’t beautiful or pretty but as she arches her back, eyes squeezed shut, she is so attractive it fucking hurts just to look at her. Her hair a sweat-curled tangle, those dark eyes – whenever she deigns to look at him – hungry, devouring, brilliant, and her mouth wide and grinning, imperfect teeth bared like something feral.

And her pale cheeks flushed deep dark pink.

***

“So,” she says afterwards, cheeks still hot, mouth swollen, voice hoarse, hair an even bigger mess than usual. “What am I going to do with you?”

He smiles, head in her lap, her fingers playing with his hair. “Anything you want,” he says, happily.

And she laughs.

 

 


End file.
